“That’s true,” said I; “well, I don’t want to know your sorrows; come, where’s the book?”
The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. “Book, child, what book?”
“Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.”
“Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child—I have lost it, have left it at home.”
“Lost it,” said I; “left it at home—what do you mean? Come, let me have it.”
“I ha’n’t got it, child.”
“I believe you have got it under your cloak.”
“Don’t tell any one, dear; don’t—don’t,” and the apple-woman burst into tears.
“What’s the matter with you?” said I, staring at her.
“You want to take my book from me?”